


Bolide

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: African Dream Root, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Canon-Typical Violence, Community: wincestbigbang, Dean's One Job, Embedded Images, Fic and Art, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Mild underage, Multi, Post-Episode: s12e03 The Foundry, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sam's soul, Season/Series 12, Soulmates, Top Sam, Wing Kink, brief scenes of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-12
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-31 18:45:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12688056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: A run-in with witches leaves Sam in a supernatural coma. Dean must navigate the broken, shifting landscape of his soul to get him back.





	Bolide

**Author's Note:**

> So much gratitude to [weakspots](http://weakspots.tumblr.com/) (a.k.a. [eris_ed](http://eris_ed.livejournal.com)): artist, genius, and pinch-hit hero! Your work takes my breath away. I’m honored to include it. Love to [crowroad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crowroad)—I’d be lost without your friendship, sage advice, and comfort. Finally, thanks to the mods. I dig this challenge and appreciate all you do! ♥
> 
> Please click “more notes” for specific warnings (there be spoilers)

Buzzy neon shines deranged off wet blacktop. Beer breath. Room key in a familiar

(my)

hand unlocks—

Sam. Tented-up sheets and a blurry—

“Shit,” in a grunt and a shouted, “Dean!” Sam rolls, shirt so tight and thin his bones almost show.

“Don’t stop on counta me…” Ditched coat. “I got my rocks off tonight, only right you should too.” Dropped boots.

“Dude.” Sam turns. Lips, unearthly pink in this—

(memory?)

light.

(except)

Edge of the bed. “This girl, Mallory?” Bare chest. “Think she’s a cheerleader at your school, and I gotta tell ya, man…” Puddle of jeans. “No gag reflex. I thought that shit was a myth.”

(never)

Under the sheets. “C’mon.” Soft touch, Sam’s—

(girl)

apartment. Face in the Smurfs and a hand in wet heat.

(what the)

Groaning behind his neck and Sam’s long fingers—

 “Sammy?”

*

“Man, you could wake on up now.” Dean clears a curve, stomps gas and Baby roars.

Radio squawks, “—mysterious blast that rocked Central Minnesota early this morning. Experts suspect a meteor exploding in the atmosphere, flattening trees and rattling windows across—”

Glance at his phone. _Bars. Finally._ “Call Jody.” Eyes in the rearview, Sam stays spooky-still.

Two rings. “Heya, Dean.”

“Sheriff.”

“What’s up?”

“Any chance you got an EMT owes you a favor?”

“Oh my God…”

“Hey don’t panic yet. Sammy got knocked out and we’d do the ER but-ah. You know, since the-uh… thing with the thing…”

“You boys wanna keep a low profile.”

“Speakin my language, Sheriff.”

“Bring him here.”

“You’re the boss,” gives Dean some comfort. “Thanks, Jody. I can’t—”

“Shut up, hang up, and drive safe.”

“Yes ma’am.” Dean chucks his phone in the shotgun seat. Darts another glance toward the back.

*

Jody nods at the tall, tan, ten of a lifesaver leaning over Sam, who’s flat on the couch. “Mariah’s a med student.”

Mariah squints. “How’s it the sheriff always dragging me into the sketchy shit?”

“Not sketchy,” Jody says. “Just, deductibles, you know?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Mariah peels Sam’s eyelids back. “How long’s he been unconscious?”

 _What time is it now?_ Walk from the woods, drive time… “Five hours? Long end?”

Penlight flicks back and forth. “His pupils respond.” Blue latex hands probe around, behind Sam’s head. “I can’t find any trauma. What’d you say hit him?”

“No idea.” Wasn’t a tire iron, that’s for sure.

“Find any drugs?”

Dean shakes his head. “There was a girl,” six girls, strictly speaking, “might’ve slipped him somethin.” Not that it’d show on a tox screen.

“Well…” Mariah stands, powder clouds where she snaps off her gloves. “He’s not in any distress, his vitals are strong. Give him a few more hours, if he’s still not moving…”

“Thank you,” Dean almost keeps it even.

Mariah shows a palm. “Don’t let me see you again,” and to Jody, “I’m serious.”

Jody salutes. “Gotcha, doc. No more favors.”

Middle finger over her shoulder says Mariah ain’t buying that. Door bangs shut and silence lingers.

“I-uh…” Dean scratches his neck. “Can’t even say what I owe you for—”

“Stop it.”

Dean blinks.

“You and Sam have saved… this town alone, what? Half a dozen times?”

“Come on.”

Jody smiles, lays him open. “Listen. Girls’ll be home soon. Let’s get Sam upstairs, huh? There’s a recliner in my room, you can—”

“Hey, I appreciate it, but…” Dean looks at Sam. Sleeping. Or, near enough. Can’t remember the last time he looked so peaceful. “Next step’s dangerous, probably stupid.”

She fires an eyebrow. “Find a witch.”

“Witches did it to him. Maybe one’ll know how to get him back.”

Jody sighs. “Please be smart about this.”

Dean smirks. “You know me better than that.”

*

“ _…maleficus, exaudi me!_ ”

Dean’s voice rings off steel and damp concrete. Match lands in the bowl and flares up, flames out. Black surface ripples.

“Oh for—I have a mobile, you know.” Rowena’s painted face shimmers in.

Dean rolls eyes. “And there’s a chance you’da hit ignore. How’d you like me to owe you a favor?”

“That great plaid ox of a brother o’yours already owes me. I’m still awaitin the brutal death of m—”

“Don’t make me forcibly summon you.”

Hiss. “You don’t have the magic.”

“You wanna take that chance?”

Puff of green smoke solidifies. Rowena glares. “Wh—what’s this, a cat food factory?” Finger under her nose. “Bloody—”

“Listen, witch. You’ve done all right by us, on occasion, that one attempted murder aside.”

“You were a merciless beast at the time. And much, much sexier, too, if you ask—”

Dean almost gags. “Lucky you, Crowley’d get pissed if I ganked you, otherwise...”

“Is this your idea of seduction? How Fergus fancies so you I’ll never—”

“Easy.” No call for her thoughts on that.

“Wait…” she practically conjures a light bulb. “Where’s your moose?”

Dean’s fists clench. “You gonna behave?”

“On my honor.”

 _Well that’s not comforting_. “Come with me.”

*

Just the one lamp burns in Sam’s room. Throws long shadows up the walls. Sammy still ain’t moving. Chest rises and falls under folded hands. Tranquil. Other days Dean would’ve bled for this.

“We thought one of the witches was a vic. Sam stayed with her to keep her safe and…” Dean swallows. “I found him next to an altar.”

“What did you see?” Rowena circles Sam’s bed, incense bowl pours silver-blue fog.

“Dead witches, burnt out. Kinda like angel kills.”

“Any sigils you recognized? Plants or crystals?”

“No.” Not a thought in his mind beyond, _Get Sam._

Rowena’s magic cloud winds, clings to the blankets. She sets her bowl down and intones, “ _Aperiam oculos meos_ …” pupils and irises vanish, “ _veritatem mihi!_ ”

Smoke shimmers and she stumbles. Wide-eyed: “He shouldn’t be alive.”

“No. He shouldn’t.” Billie’s boots click, right up on them. Dean mostly suppresses his shudder. “Winchesters,” trademark disdain.

“Aye, tell me about it,” Rowena mutters.

Billie fires her a look. “Whatever those witches were doing? They tried to tap Sam’s soul for power.”

_And Sam’s soul’s bubblegummed together._

“…shattered.” Billie shakes her head. “Scattered around…”

“Hold up.” Dean breaks in. “Old Death said souls can’t be destroyed.”

“They can’t.” Billie pins him, tight-mouthed. “He can’t live or die like this.”

“Can you fix him?” Tires on gravel.

“No,” she eyes Dean, folds her arms, “but maybe you can.”

“What’ve I gotta do? And, what’ll I owe you?”

“Do what you always do. And, no deal.” Eyebrow. “Just, fix your own hole in the natural order for once.” She turns to Rowena. “You, witch.”

Rowena freakin curtsies. “Aye.”

“African dream root, meadowbloom and bloodwort.”

Rowena nods. “Valerian?”

“Good.” And back to Dean, “Get his DNA.”

“What…” Dean throws up his hands and takes off. Tongue depressors in the infirmary, that’ll get Sam’s spit.

“I’ll be glad to collect—”

He really should’ve killed Rowena when he—

“Dean.” Billie follows. “You know there’s risks.”

“And you know I don’t care.”

“Not that you’ll die. Couldn’t be that simple.” She steps front of him. “You could get lost, end up just like him. One foot on either side, no peace, ever.”

“Whaddaya think are my chances?”

Half a second there Dean swears he sees sympathy. “I don’t have any idea. You two—”

_That’s a bit-back cuss._

“—brothers are unprecedented.”

*

Cas shows up in time to carry an armchair to Sam’s room. “Are you sure you can sleep here? I can remove the desk, bring in your bed—”

“It’s fine, Cas. This brew’s gonna knock me out, right?”

“Aye,” Rowena joins them, sets a tray on Sam’s desk. “I found chamomile tea in the pantry.” She grinds herbs with a pestle. “It’s that or whiskey,” she rolls her eyes, “American, no less.”

“Tea’s fine,” Billie clips.

Rowena ties the herbs in a cloth. Lays hands on a kettle, murmurs in Latin and gets it whistling. Steam blooms from the ritual bowl as she pours. “When it’s cool enough to drink,” in goes Sam’s spit stick, “take it all.”

“Hey I’m not so sure about this.” Dean says. “Ain’t like I got a truckload of trust for—”

“They’re leaving.” Cas says. “I’ll stay and watch over you while you sleep.”

“Cas, man, you know that shit freaks me out.”

“Which is why I don’t usually mention it.”

Dean bristles.

“Good luck, Dean.” Billie taps his forehead. Pulse of power staggers him back. “And get your shit together. I’m gettin real bored of chasin Winchesters.” She’s gone before the sound of her voice dies.

“Am I free to go as well?” Syrup drips off Rowena’s smile and she bows deep, spreads her skirt.

“Yeah, yeah.” Dean waves her off. “Just, stay outta trouble.”

“On my honor,” which, still not comforting. Rowena crosses her heart and smokes out.

“Dean.” Cas tilts his chin. “Have you told your mother about Sam’s… condition?”

“Don’t see why I should. She’s off busy lookin for herself or whatever—”

“You don’t want to call her? Just in case—”

“What, Cas? I screw this up?” Can’t think about this. “Look, man. I just gotta, take care of my brother right now, okay? You call her, you’re so concerned. You’re not the one she can’t stand to look at.”

Cas backs off.

*

Barking dog and laughing kids. Dean blinks awake—or, not—in his armchair, out in a field. Too-tall grass leans toward a house and woods further on. Ground’s not entirely solid and his vision fuzzes at the edges. Makes him think of that one time he got blitzed on Jaeger bombs which, fuck that was a bad—

Red collie pup blows by and on its heels…

Sammy. Six years old, give or take, laughing and chasing. Dean, ten, runs right behind. “Careful, dude. Dad’ll kick our asses you get your school clothes dirty.”

“You’re not supposed to cuss,” Sam prisses.

Dean wracks his brain, can’t remember this place. Damn sure they never had—

“Uncle Dean!” Blonde curls bound around blue eyes and dimples. Toddler arms stretch out, full-barrel run.

Dean scoops her up on reflex and she buries her face in his shoulder.

“Aw, come on, Sammi,” Little—no, not Dean—turns back. “He’s not gonna carry you. Quit bein a brat!”

“I’m not a brat!” She sticks out her tongue.

Then, Jessica, thirtysomething and still way outta Sam’s league. Jeans and snow boots stick out from under a puffy coat, and when did the weather turn? Dean shivers, teeters, has to set Sammi down.

“Hey, guys, let’s get in the house and get warm, huh?” And to Dean, “You’re back.”

“Back?”

“Did you find Sam?” She starts walking.

Dean falls in step. “Haven’t, really, had a chance to look yet…”

“He should be home soon.”

“Home from where?”

“You wanna cook or have takeout?”

Talking across each other. He steps in front of her. “Jess? Do you know where Sam is?”

She sighs. “We _are_ Sam. This is _all_ him. You don’t remember?”

“I’ve been here before.”

“You live here!” Round, wet eyes meet his. He’d forgotten how tall she was. “Or, you’re supposed to. He made this for us. He’s trying to keep us safe.”

Air warps like caloric waves. Time lapse: Jessica bleeds, flash-burns in phantom flames. Hair crisps, floats away, skin boils and cracks. Jess crumples to a pile of bone, then ash. Wind blows and Dean shields his face.

When he looks it’s all gone. Charred brick and timbers, grass scorched to the dirt. He makes for the black-blasted woods, picks between split and toppled trunks. No heat, no smoke, even though Hellfire haunts his peripheral, sulfur and chains for his nose, ears. Voices hiss between the branches. EVP, almost, or a crowded bar. Conversation layers. Whispered screams.

Sam laughs.

Dean spins, alone. He shuts his eyes. If he can tune in on one track, like the bass in a rock song…

His voice: _“You didn’t.”_

And Sam, snickering, _“Oh I did.”_

Fuckin fisherman clock or whatever cackles.

_Tulpa. Think we were hunting a tulpa._

Figure flits between the trunks. Sam, seven or so, hoists a duffle and shoots up ten, twenty years. Turns to Dean with nightmare eyes, calculates. Dean tastes the vamp blood then, smells piss and dumpster—

 _“No!”_ thumps under the ground.

Forest, summer now and full green. Breeze twists leaves into shadows of faces, mourned and not-so-mourned. Dean presses toward a sound… _Yahtzee._ Trees break maybe ten yards from a steep bluff, ocean overlook. Sun sets like a too-ripe peach.

“Sammy?” Lucifer, Lilith, and Alastair, loud in the crashing surf. John, Ruby, Dean.

“You’re not my brother.” Sam sits, _not-supposed-to-say-Indian-style, Dean._ He doesn’t move.

“What? Course I am.”

“Same as your last ten apparitions insisted?” Slump-shouldered, thumb jams at his palm scar.

_Son of a—_

“And even if you were. Why would I trust you? Last time real-you showed up like this he helped an angel possess me.”

Dean swallows. “Sam, do you know what’s happening?”

“I know I can’t wake up but I’m not dead. I’m guessing it’s bad.” Sam looks, finally. Skin’s almost gray, hair greasy and limp. Hollows under his eyes. “Please go back to the house, Dean. I can keep that place together if you’d stop fucking fighting me!”

*

“Uncle Dean!”

Chair’s gone. Otherwise… “Sammi. Your name’s Sammi.” This time he scoops her up with some finesse.

“Aw, come on, Sammi,” her brother gripes, and—

“Hey, guys, let’s get in the house and get warm, okay?”

Dean sets Sammi on the ground. Breaks, dead run, back toward the cliff.

“You find Sam?” Jess calls behind him. “He should be home soon. You wanna cook or get takeout?”

Dean slows, can’t hear the ocean. Brush cracks under his boots and twigs slash his face. Tinder-dry.

“Hey old-timer.” Leaning against a fat sugar maple, drowning in Dad’s coat, Camel tucked behind his ear and amulet bright on his chest. No more than, eighteen, nineteen…

Dean can give as good as he—gives, he guesses. “What do _you_ want, microbe?”

Surprised smile creases the kid’s eyes. “Microbe? You sound like my geek brother.”

“I’ll take the compliment.”

Mini-me hitches an eyebrow and God that’s annoying. No wonder tween-Sammy wanted to fight all the time. “I know you.”

Dean rumbles something to pass for a laugh. “You don’t know shit, kid.”

He pulls out a Zippo and goes for his smoke.

“You sure that’s a good idea?” Dean toes the floor. Leaves crumble. “This whole place—”

“Gonna burn either way.” Cigarette bursts alight with the sky. “Hang on!”

Both Deans crouch against trees as a wall of wind screams up. Leaves and light brush fly, roar around their heads in swirls and eddies. Creaking, cracking above and it’s raining fire. Flaming branches tumble, airborne tinder ignites and Dean’s been to Hell but _this is some fuckin shit._ He sticks out a hand, “Come on!” and his younger self grabs hold and the fire—

Stops.

Just, wisps out like a candle under a jar.

They jerk back. “What the fuck?” together and “Knock that shit off.”

Two squints.

“Okay, that’s annoying.”

Teeth grind.

“I’ve got intel.”

Two mouths open, pause.

“I’m gonna save my brother and you’re gonna help me.”

Heads nod.

“What’ve you got?”

“You first.”

“No, you.”

“Goddammit.”

Dean starts, hesitates. Kid waves him on. “I’m you.”

That eyebrow again. “Yeah I got that.”

 _Christ I’m a smartass._ “No, I’m, Dean. From,” wavy hands, “out there. I’m, sleeping in a chair next to Sam’s bed in the Bunker.” Dean frowns. “You know about the Bunker?”

“I know what Sam knows. Or, what he knew when he hit the deck, I guess.”

“Cause you’re him. Some kinda, memory of me?”

“Something like.” Kid shudders. “We should keep moving.”

“Yeah.” Heat licks at Dean’s back even though night’s falling fast. “What have you seen?”

“Hell, mostly.” Matter-of-fact. “Jessica, those kids…” Cocky little head-flip. “First time I’ve seen you though. Well, me.” Tremors rock the ground. “House is the stablest place. You wanna…”

“Sure, kid.” Dean falls in behind his double.

*

“Uncle Dean!” Only this time Sammi pulls up, looks between them and bolts. “Mommmmyyyy!”

“Aw, come on, Sammi.” Big brother darts after her. “Quit bein a brat.”

“I’m not a brat!”

“You’re back.” Jess squints. “And you brought—”

“Henry,” the kid says. “Second cousin.”

“Something’s…” Jess steps back. “Guys, get in the house right now, you hear me?” Ground shakes. Jess distorts like crackle glass and crashes in a heap. Wind sears. Crack and a roar and the field splits open and swallows the house. Grand Canyon travesty fills with lava, creeps their way.

Dean makes to shag ass but the kid holds ground.

“How brave you feelin, old-timer?” Points toward the gorge.

“Are you kidding me?!” Gale howls around them and tall grass catches fire as hot ash falls.

“Trust me!” And he leaps, right out into the chasm.

Dean cusses, maybe prays. _Some kinda Bowser’s castle shit right here_ , but he jumps. Hair and clothes curl up and char as he falls. Wild laughter rings through the rift. Boulders crash and steam spits. Dean balls up, braces for impact...

*

Unfolds. All his arms and legs accounted for.

“You gonna put on some pants there, grandpa?”

Dean thinks of his all-time favorite Zep tee and broke-in Levi’s. Warmer, somehow. “What the hell is this?” Black skies, mostly. Pinprick lights like distant stars, dust and rocks in red and gold and blue. “Lost in frickin Space?”

“Best I figure?” Kid hangs, mid-air. Amulet floats in front of him. “Sam’s workin a metaphor. Some kinda, asteroid field or nebula, I dunno.”

“Okay…”

“You remember that Space Station video with the salt and the baggie?”

Dean blinks. “Uh. No?”

Wow and it’s uncool seeing Sam’s prim little bitch mouth on his own face. “Dude…”

“What?”

“Follow me.” Kid takes off. Not quite flying but so not walking. Harder than it looks, too. “C’mon, old man. Y’always said you wanted to ride the Vomit Comet.”

 _Yeah but those guys have stuff to push off of._ Dean tries something like swimming, nowhere near as smooth but he moves.

“This way!” Makes Dean think of Barry Sanders, watching his counterpart juke and spin between rocks.

Dean slogs it. Slow-going as hell and his mastery over direction is… iffy. One bob when he should’ve weaved and he smacks into an asteroid big as a truck.

Freezing. Screaming but it’s laughable. Chains and a chair, bullet hole. Brunette works her blowtorch, blades. Blonde—Bevell—speaks then he’s in her, slick and driving then he’s watching Sam go at her. Head falls back and she eyes Dean. Purrs, “Tell me about your brother,” and Dean springs, ready to rip that bitch to pieces—

Spinning. Lucifer cackles, over his shoulder and off to his left while Gacy and Pennywise take potshots at him. _If it bleeds…_ Bang! Glitter rains, Dean takes a swing—

In a cage. Not, _the_ Cage, just a box with a rebar top. Squawky civilian behind him: “—come back and do god-knows-what to us.”

“Hey! Yo! Dean! You with me?” Kid grabs, shakes his shoulders.

Dean blinks. “Get offa me.” Shrugs him away. “What the fuck, dude?” He sees a ripple, red and pulsing in the dust. “What is this shit?”

Kid shrugs. “Soul stuff. Memories, I dunno…”

Dean sticks out a hand—

“Dean, don’t!”

Light. Hellish and lurid. Dean recoils, shields his eyes. Racket like a Kansas tornado and stench like rotting meat. “Kid! Hey kid!” but he don’t get an answer.

Wind knocked out as he hits the deck. Green smells, when he gets his breath back. Dean pushes up to his knees, shakes out the cobwebs.

Sam faces away, plucks at the cuffs of a spotless coat.

“Nice face, asshole.” Dean’s double’s right beside him. “What’s with the Ricardo Montalbán—”

Both Deans crash into a garden wall. Climbing roses curl and squeeze…

Lucifer sidles over. “Well, well.” Runs a finger down the kid’s jaw. “Everyone knows Sammy’s fixated but…” Palm lands icy on Dean’s sternum, slips up under his chin. “Conjuring two of you…” Eyes tighten and flash red. “Wait.” Lucifer tears Dean’s shirt apart, noses his neck, shoulder to earlobe.

“Lemme get this straight.” Breath of brimstone’s probably Dean’s imagination. “I was just, floating along in this big ol Sammy soup, until _you_ …” Lucifer strokes Dean’s chest. “My very own radioactive spider.” Licks Dean’s temple. “I’m gonna eat your heart.” Sam’s dimples flash around a vicious tilt. “Wonder if you’ll live long enough to see me bite in.” Fingertips, blistering cold and Dean screams.

“No!” Vines rip and the kid—

Goes full Sam. Twenty-five, twenty-six, days he guzzled protein shakes and _(skank blood)_ got near Schwarzenegger swole. Humming, high on a Detroit street…

Nah…

This Sam’s from Stull.

Barrels at Lucifer, who stumbles back. Grins and falls to a fighting stance. Sam circles; Lucifer tracks, red-eyed. Feints with a left and Sam sidesteps.

Lucifer laughs. “Can’t duck me forever, Sammy.” Sam unloads a shot to his ribs. Lucifer grunts, grins. “Better!” Jab clips Sam’s jaw.

Sam rubs his mouth. “That all you got?”

Dean pulls and writhes. Blood seeps from his wrists where thorns dig in.

Lucifer dances, Ali-style. And damn if Sammy ain’t a patient fighter. Blocks and swipes, picks his openings. Lucifer starts to get pissed. “Come on and fight, you little bitch!” Broad, sloppy swings, and signature quick, Sam twists. Tosses and Lucifer’s own momentum carries him down. Sam pins him, boot at his neck, tread print stains that pretty white suit.

“I win,” Lucifer laughs, and black-gold wings erupt from his shoulders.

Sam trips backward, crumples and Dean’s loose, oughta faceplant but the ground’s not there. Whole garden… comes unstuck and they’re back on zero-g, in the nebula. Lucifer blazes red; Dean shields his eyes. Howls and rips and cackles and when he looks…

Sam’s face, tiny waist. Torn-up suit pants look so damn Lou Ferrigno Dean almost laughs, except…

Lucifer’s cut to the point of grotesque. Huge muscles twitch under stone-black skin, flecked and marbled red and gray. Hooves. Wings beat, sonic booms. Spidery fingers stretch toward Dean but Sam blasts in, shoulder-to-middle and drives them out of sight.

Dean fights to follow. Getting the hang of the swimming thing, but he’s thrashing against a tide. Shockwaves. Two yards forward and one yard back—or whatever counts for a yard in this place. Finally, edge of his vision, Sam and Lucifer swap blows. Light and dust blast out with every shot. Lucifer buzzes Sam’s head and Sam flips, kicks the sonofabitch right in the gut.

Lucifer flees. Zips past Dean and a wingbeat tosses him into the car, sick crunch from the tires. Stink of blood and dog and _Ohhh, God. Please let me save him, if I can just save…_

Dean shakes off the memory. Sees Sam, hauling Lucifer down by the wings. Lucifer roars with rage and the Cage Rowena built appears. Sam slams him to the floor.

“You’re not the devil. You’re a… a vacuum bag of bad memories and burnt grace.”

Lucifer writhes. Neck twists, eyes meet Dean’s and cruel glee: “Big talk from a sex doll.” Wings puff powder. Sam pitches and they roll. Cage clangs away. “Didn’t tell him _your_ radioactive spider story, did you? I’m just guessing.” Lucifer spins and he’s holding the kid, kisses him, top of the head and the kid screams. Lucifer flings him off into the darkness. Shimmer-fast, he seizes Dean—

Buzzy neon. Dean blinks. Across the lot, eighteen. Amulet and Dad’s coat. Room key.

“Go on,” _(not)_ Sam thrums against him, winged, naked. Frosts Dean’s breath.

Nothing good behind that door but he’s through it. Sam turns, lips unearthly pink and the kid drops trou…

“This didn’t happen.”

“Tell him what he’s won, Johnny!”

Dean remembers. He talked shit about some girl, yeah, and Sam came… _Fuck._ Curtains swirl—

“—to California!”

Face in the Smurfs and a hand in wet heat, groan at the back of his neck and Sam’s long fingers—

Blonde curls blind him. “Fuck, Sam, you were right, he’s…” Kiss, on the top of his head.

“Sammy cooked up a whole alt-life for you.” Palm on his hip burns cold. “I understand your double got… quite upset about it.” Claws graze. “I could take you this way…” Icy. Blunt. Horror but he rocks down. Jess comes. Dean reds out—

_“Enough!”_

And they’re on the bluff. Waves smash loud at the cliff base. White moon hangs in a blood sky. Sam—trials-sick sack of skin and bones, gray streaks past his shoulders—towers. Forty, fifty feet. Ocean boils around his knees and the woods fall back from the cliff. He scoops up Lucifer like a G.I. Joe.

Dean’s _goddammit_ naked again—still—whatever. He ties the sheet around his waist. “Sam!”

Sam stares at the squirming creature in his grip. Stoops, nose-to-Dean. “Dean.”

Shakes him clear to the molecules. Dean drops to his knees, grabs his head. Sam climbs up from the surf, shrinks down to his regular overgrown self. “Sorry.” Sam squints. “You’re… really you.”

“In the—” Dean starts, gets to his feet. “Well not the _flesh_ I guess.” He mutters, “Dammit.”

Sam grins, just a little but a sun’s born somewhere. Sky bursts blue and he watches Dean.

“Sammy, you gotta listen to me.”

Sam walks to the edge. “I know…”

Dean points. Lucifer, down to a dimestore toy. “He-uh, thought if we joined up it’d give him power. Tried to eat my heart. Fuckin original, huh?”

Sam nods. “Your-uh, double had the same idea.” Tap on his temple.

“You like—”

Sam nods.

“—ate him?”

“What? God, Dean, no!”

“You fuck him?” The Night-Moves Smirk.

“Dude.”

“Well, monster-you seemed to think that’d work too.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Sam gets quiet. “I dunno whether to, eat him too or,” thumbs a plastic wingtip, “try to end him.”

“Not my call, man.”

Sam’s head tilts, deep forehead lines.

“If it was me, no question. I’d do anything to get you outta this; you know that, but…” Dean grits his teeth. “ _You_ gotta live with the fallout, carryin that around…” Can’t fight off a shudder.

Sam’s neck cords. “I need him.” Hooded eyes. “He’s-uh… part of who I am, right?”

“Sammy.”

“He always was.” Doll in his palm gleams red. Turns to glitter and swirls, sinks into his hand. Sam’s eyes squeeze shut, jaws clench, but his face pinks up, plumps. Gray fades from his hair as he draws a labored breath.

“Dude, you all right?”

Sam swallows. Fingers flex and stretch. “Yeah. Yeah I got this.”

“Y’bout ready to wake up?”

Sam turns, looks out over the blue. “No.” Slump-shouldered. “I-uh… think I know what I have to do, I just—”

“Hey, you know what?” Dean joins Sam, bumps their shoulders. “Billie gave me somethin. Dunno if it’ll help, but—” He lays two fingers on Sam’s forehead.

*

Faint smell of ozone. “Dean.” Cas fills his vision. Dean shoves up from his chair; Cas shoves him back. “What happened?”

“How’s Sam?”

Snoring. Rolls on his side which ain’t awake, but it’s progress. Shiner below one eye and a split lip, busted knuckles. Dean peels up his shirt, bumper crop of bruises blooms around his ribs. Cas moves in and Sam groans low, soft light of angel healing.

“I should see to your wounds too, Dean.”

“Come on.” Just a couple of thorn holes, but Cas taps his forehead and the stinging stops.

Dean cooks. Rotates Dad’s kitchen sink and Mom’s tomato rice by the bucketload. Brings Sam a fresh bowl every couple of hours and Cas totes leftovers to homeless camps. Cas helps him keep Sam comfortable, clean.

Mom texts, _Castiel said Sam got hurt on the job. You boys need anything?_

Dean deletes, _Our mom_ three times before he sends, _Nah. We got this_.

Five days in, he’s scrubbed all the floors and toilets and detailed Baby twice. Redone that whole section of hallway, hammer-hole patch finally erased.

“Dean.” Billie barely makes him jump. “Any news?”

Dean pulls down the last of the painter’s tape. “You tell me; souls are your thing.”

High heels ring off tile and plaster. Billie lifts Sam’s eyelid. “He’s getting there.”

“Any clue how long?”

“Nope.” Billie brushes stray hairs off Sam’s forehead. “We’re way off the script here.”

“Right.” Dean’s jaws clench. “Unprecedented.”

If she works any mojo, she doesn’t say. Just wishes Dean luck and strolls out in a flash of light. Four hours later, Sam’s awake.

“Heya, Rip Van Winkle.”

“Cute.” Sam showers and shaves. Eats like an Olympian.

“How bout you get you some rest?”

Sam shuts him down. “I’ve been sleeping for days. Let’s hunt.”

And it’s death-by-stigmata in Iowa. Sam keeps quiet, other than bitching he has to pee.

“Weird, creepy, _Children of the Corn_ people? Yeah, I’m in.”

But Sammy’s off. Nags him about Mom, yells at a witness, worst of all drops his damn guard. Dean should’ve turfed this son of a bitch to another hunter. “You sure you’re all right?” Psychic kid whose mother hates her, last thing Sammy needs shoved in his face. “That head of yours don’t need no more knocks.”

“Said the concussion king of the Midwest.”

At least Mom texted him back. “If I’m the king…” Dean glances at shotgun, lips twitch and Sam huffs. Dean comes off a curve and _looks_ -looks, no trying to hide it. Sam’s knees, hips, shoulders, eyes…

Sam twists in the seat. “We gonna talk about—”

Dean cranks a tape. Points to his ear and shakes his head.

Later, he slides a jar down the library table. Pulls out a tongue depressor and scrapes in his mouth.

Sam squints.

“Look, man.” Dean drops the stick. “I went snoopin around in your custard, only right you should—”

“Dean, I don’t need this.”

“Yeah, well… I kinda do.” Dean walks away. “Don’t stay up too late, huh?”

Sam thumbs the jar lid. “Sweet dreams.”

*

Dean hunts. Vamps, Buffy rules. Stakes in each hand he whirls and plows through waves of gnarly faces. Finally the last one drops, ash clouds and—

Slow clap. Sam leans on a mausoleum, shaking his head.

Dean grins. Cards flip and they’re out of the graveyard, summer highwayside. Vine-choked trees filter the sun, green and glowing. “Hey old-timer.” Baby gleams underneath him. Camel tucked behind his ear and a Zippo in hand.

Sam’s eyes bug a little, which, win.

“Can’t fault you for taste, I mean…” Dean licks his lips, bats lashes. “Still. The boy band thing—”

“Was an accident. You sorta, woke up like that.”

“This is weird, man.” Dean shakes. Back to his _(not old)_ normal self.

“Dean, we really have to talk.” World spins. Sam sinks to the edge of his Bunker bed and Dean hangs in the doorway.

“I know. But it’s a laundry list, and I don’t wanna waste this.” Dean jumps, tumbles midair. Ten years old, give or take. He swoops in, smacks Sam, back of the head. “You’re it, bitch.” And he darts for the hall.

“You’re not supposed to cuss,” Sam says. Dean blinks and Sam’s all over him. Poke to his ribs and a kid-giggle. “Now you’re it, jerk,” and he’s gone. Way better flyer, little shit. Sam races down the hall, grabs the door frame and pivots out of sight.

Dean’s not so graceful. He takes the hallway on foot, launches himself toward the library and sees Sam. Perched on the balcony railing and tongue stuck out. Dean zigs up; Sam zags down. Blasts through the War Room and papers fly. Sam’s laugh echoes off the ceiling, trails away. Dean listens. Sounds like Sammy’s—

Dean pops like a TV tube and Sam’s headed right for him. Crash. Spin-dry, ass over end until Dean smacks his head.

“Ow!”

“Shit. Shit, Dean, you all right?”

Dean rubs, winces. Gonna lump up for sure. “Dream root.”

“Dude, I am _so_ sorry.”

No blood. He’ll live. “We better take this outside.”

Sam grins. Bunker ceiling clamshells, splits and Sam bolts skyward. Dean shoves off, snags Sam by an ankle. “Gotcha, squirt.”

But Sam’s too quick. Pulls a twisting somersault, “Tag!” Wet sloppy kiss to Dean’s forehead.

Dean wipes his face. Eyes up...

Uncle Bobby’s.

Sam, twelve-ish. Feet swing off a steep porch roof. “That’s hide-and-seek, Dean.” Expectant.

Dean grasps for it… “Nah. This here’s,” remembers, “‘situational navigation and tracking.’ You won’t believe how many monsters dig junkyards. One.”

Sam flits off like he’s born for it, passes behind a shed. Wind picks up, shakes their old tire swing. Dean spots a busted BMX in the dirt.

“Aww yeah. I’m about to _E.T._ this mother.” Bike’s missing a wheel but it won’t matter in the air. Dean pedals and lifts, above all but the tallest stacks. “Ten!”

“Cheater!” Disembodied. Smart.

Hayloft of the old barn. Friggin obvious, Dean expects better from Sam, which means… “Gotcha!” Sam’s flannel. Sam’s not in it.

“Try again!” Wicked laugh.

Dean sails through an open a window. Scans. Lotta real estate to keep solid. Scattered soft spots, shimmers in his peripheral... _Car crusher_. Scraps around it flicker, shift, but the old machine holds. Dean sends the bike off squeaking the other direction and drops. Pictures the crusher’s controls, ladder up to the crane…

Fritzing makes him itch all over. Down below, flash of purple turns out to be t-shirt. “What is this, strip hide-and-seek?!” Implications hit him. Cheeks heat.

“Home free!” Sam singsongs, grown-man deep.

Dean long-jumps. House paint fades and plywood pops up in the windows. Angel wards.

“I win.” Sam’s in… _just_ jeans. Big palm slides behind Dean’s neck. Mixed-up breath—

“Sammy, we can’t.” Junkyard bleaches. Dean plugs on. “Man, I was there. You _still_ want the whole…” Apple-pie smell and Sam’s girl, Sam’s kids, Sam’s dog…

“Dean, that was everything good I could dredge up, not some kind of…”

“Dream life?”

“Hardly.” Sam says. “You saw those woods, those visions. It was all like that.” Sam’s chin jerks, “Until I remembered you.” Half a laugh. “Then of course, you had to go and start doing your own thing.”

“Trying to wake you up.”

“Trying to save me.” Sam touches his cheek. “Dean, I chose you. Years ago, and yeah. You piss me off—”

“Excuse me? I piss _you_ off?”

“—I can’t lose you.” Meat hooks dig in Dean’s triceps.

“Sammy.”

“This is the life I want now, you understand?”

Dean all at once smells the Bunker’s old books, wood and leather. Eyes close and he tilts to Sam. Tongues slide, soft and strong and Sam tastes… starlight. Dean takes off, tight grip on his brother. Still ain’t quite flying, unless he counts _Greatest American Hero_.

So of course Sam says, “You’re a crappy Superman.”

“Which is weird because you’re an awesome Lois.”

Sam flat-eyes, grabs him and takes over and Dean… _reacts_. Sam gasps. “You’re… into this?”

This place, Dean’s blush full-on glows. “I mean, freaky as that devil monster got, uh… You? With the wings?” He cocks an eyebrow, licks the edge of his teeth.

Sam cat-smiles, concentrates. Angel sound kinda makes Dean cringe, except… Gold-black feathers fan out, fingerlike. Sam rolls his shoulders and flaps, full sonic boom and they shoot up, corn and beans and wheat break patchwork below.

Dean shivers, which is silly.

Sam smirks. “Lose something?”

Fucking pants! Take too much concentration. Dean dreams up matched bedsheets, tied at the waist. “There could be kids down there!”

Wide-mouth laugh. And, “You know, if you’re cold…”

First feathers twitch, tickle. Sam folds in, and Dean’d be ashamed of the mental cradle picture if he weren’t so busy not humping Sam’s leg. Wind… ruffles feathers, Sam’s hair, Dean’s eyelashes. Hands around Sam’s ribs, then he’s loose! Hang-gliding off his brother’s bare chest. Sam’s wings spread, work the thermals.

“Sammy, it ain’t I don’t trust you…” Dean’s fighting the old technicolor yawn here. Clinging to Sam like a changeling.

Sam wraps him up all cozy burrito again and Dean breathes. Sam’s warm, smells cinnamon somehow. Pecs flex, hips roll, and Dean groans. Grinds. Sam bucks and they slow, tip so their toes touch down.

“Seriously?” Water jets and colored lights.

“It’s the Bellagio!” Sam spins. Hair and wings and sheets get plastered wet.

“Yeah I got that,” Dean laughs. Sam blitzes him. Cold spray against hot tongues.

Day breaks. Sam flaps, floats them up onto the roof. Wings unfold, tremor and water flies.

“Dude,” Dean tries to bitch but Sam’s on him. Feathers for shade and Sam’s mouth, Sam’s teeth, Sam’s hips…

“Dean, wait.”

“Are you kidding me?” Concussion and blue balls. _Bang-up dreamwalk, Winchester_.

“Not like this. I need it real.”

Dean gets that.

“Come to my room when you wake up?”

“Oh, no.” Dean shudders, exaggerated. “Your bed’s a bag of gravel. You come to _my_ room.”

“Baby.” Sam smiles and they gain altitude…

*

Dean’s in his bed with his lips all tingly. Blinks a few times. He’s got night vision; that’s good. Tries to make himself float off the mattress, fails, aaand he’s awake.

Soft knock.

“Dude. Really?”

Sam peeks in. Doe-eyed, bed-headed and half naked.

“C’mere.” Dean swings his legs off the side and Sam sinks between. Goes for Dean’s shirt and he lifts his arms, closes his eyes as the fabric slips. Seconds tick.

Dean cracks an eye; Sam’s checkin him out, lookin him over and not to make stitches for once. Fingers, delicate almost, ridge of his collarbone, ring of his tatt. Sam palms up his thighs, ribs, shoulders. Tugs and they close the gap, half in the bed, half on the floor.

Sammy… _kisses._ Wraps Dean’s face in his hands, blankets him backward. Teeth click and Dean’s head spins, neck cranes. Sam tips sideways. Fingers around Dean’s wrist, guide him to Sam’s waistband. Dean’s thighs, fist squeeze. Sam wriggles his pants down, goes for Dean’s shorts. Sammy’s everywhere. Hands, arms, legs. Sam’s mouth in his shoulder. “…real, you’re real, this is real.”

Grip under Sam’s chin. “Hey.” Thumb at his lips. “Sammy, you—”

“No!” Wide eyes. “I… I didn’t mean—”

“—got a history—”

“I was… relishing.”

“Relishing?”

“Shut up.” Sam squints. “You’re not, freakin out a little?”

“Nah.” _(Maybe.)_

“Because. You haven’t shut me down. You haven’t even blinked.”

“Was it that big a secret?” Dean pets Sam’s chest. Can’t help himself. “I swore…”

“In that motel room.”

“When you lost Jess.” Dean shrinks. “Because, that night, drivin to Jericho…”

“Wondering what would’ve happened if you’da showed up, not in a crisis.” Sam knuckles outside Dean’s thigh. “What if she’d lived...”

“Sammy.”

“I didn’t think you’d...” Sam drags Dean’s knee up. “Not for real, but maybe you’d,” hand on his ass, “take turns?” Fingertips. One of those head-spinny kisses and Dean blurts—

“Suzy Lee.” Sam gropes. Dean rides it. “Just-ahh, couple of fingers, you know and-uh…” Back of his neck burns. “Her mouth.”

“This was the, porn-star-chastity-counselor?” Tug at Dean’s balls.

“She had skills, man.” Choked.

Sam growls and traces Dean’s neck tendon with teeth.

“Hang on.” Dean shoves, slips free. “I gotta make a run.”

“You what?”

“Just to the car.” Dean trips, trying to get out of bed. Prank-grin. “I-uh, hit a drugstore back in Iowa.”

“And I’m the Boy Scout.”

“No, you’re the Girl Scout.”

Race to the garage and back. Sam grabs, kisses him dirty and steers Dean facedown, spreads his legs. Fingernails through coarse hairs.

Dean rears up. “You-uh. Know what you’re doing…”

“Dude, I’ve tapped ass before.”

“I’m just sayin—” and he shoulda kept his mouth shut. Sam pours car-cold KY straight down his crack. Dean yelps. “Warn a guy!”

Sam makes it up to him. Circles his hole with a thumb, fingers his balls. “You ready?”

“You warm that shit up some?”

“Some.” Sam chuckles. “Epic baby.”

Dean starts to smart off but Sam shoves in. More of that cold damn lube and Sam twists, Dean squirms. Sam’s free hand roams over his side, his back, curls into his hip. Stretch of that next finger, Dean balls fists.

“This is the most you’ve ever had,” Sam murmurs.

_Oh, fuck, yes. Sammy, that’s—_

“…bigger than Suzy’s.”

Dean grunts. Sweat-soaked and torn up, goosebumps. Crawling out of his skin and Sam pets around, roots and pulls. Makes room. Sam spreads him, pushes his knee up higher. Dean arches. Offers it up.

KY cap. Hushed: “You know, this stuff isn’t the best for—”

“Can you stow the Dr. Ruth until after we come?”

Bed trembles.

“Shut up.”

Sam stuffs him with wet fingers. Dean reels. Sweaty forehead bumps his back. “Dean, I, can’t. I gotta…”

“Yeah,” Dean reflex fucks. “Get in there, Sammy, get yours.”

Sam hooks under his hips. “Get on your knees.”

Dean lifts. Rubber sounds all kinda different from this angle. Lube drips _(off Sam’s cock)_ , trails to his balls. Slick, hotter than fingers and he braces, pushes. Don’t hurt, not like a bite or a bullet or—Dean groans.

Kind of a, hiccup, “Y’want me to stop?”

“No.” Dean clenches; Sam bucks. Both shake.

Sammy takes him slow. Splits him wide and holds him, arms around. Sam stutter-thrusts. “You okay?”

Bit lip, limp dick say probably not. Fuck, but Sammy’s… Holdin him up, like always, sweatin all over, maulin his chest.

“Turn around, turn around.” Sam slips out easy. “I wanna see you.”

Sam rolls Dean up. Long legs lever his hips and broad shoulders hook his knees. Sam laces their fingers together. Kisses Dean. Out of his mind. Trying his damnedest to climb Sam, get an angle to rub off on. Sam yells. Cords in his neck, thin lips over gritted teeth. Dean squeezes, everything he can squeeze and his name in Sam’s mouth—

Dean blows. Vague impression of Sam, sharp sting of him pulling out.

“Barely a hand,” Sam mumbles. Dumps his rubber and hunches. Jerks off fast.

“Sammy.” Dean takes Sam’s load up his chest, on top of his own.

Sam buries him. Tangle of arms and legs and tongues. T-shirt for a come rag.

“You gonna stay?”

“You want me to?”

“I wouldn’t have asked.” Dean kisses him soft. “C’mon.” Pulls Sam to his chest.

*

Phone buzzes from the nightstand.

Quiet, “Heya, Jody.” Best four hours Dean’s got in he-doesn’t-remember.

“Hey, Dean. How’s Sam? Not still—”

“Asleep? Nah.” He slips out of bed. “I mean… yeah, but. The regular kind.”

“So you boys are good.”

Sam’s hair fans across his pillow, pink lips part, broad chest expands.

“Never better.”

“I’m so glad.”

Dean hangs in the doorway.

Sammy snores.

**Author's Note:**

> [Please go here to leave love for eris_ed](https://eris-ed.livejournal.com/591.html)'s amazing artwork. She is a wizard and a hero. ♥
> 
> Highlight for noncon pairings: Sam/Toni and Lucifer/Dean


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